“I won’t break, you know. I won’t have hysterics, or—”
“Very likely.” He uttered the words as repressively as he could.
She humphed again. “Well, I still don’t understand. If you want to marry me anyway . . .” He couldn’t miss her implication—couldn’t stop himself from turning his head—and reading, blazoned in the blue of her eyes, her curiosity, and a very definite invitation . . .
Swallowing a virulent curse, he swung his gaze back to the lane. Explaining might just have made things worse. He’d thus far managed to hold his demons in check—but what if she picked up the whip?
Oh no, no, no, no, no. He knew what he was, and what she was, and they were literally eons apart. It would take her years—at least an intensive six months—to even come close to comprehending the level of sexual knowledge he possessed. But he could guess what she was thinking, what route her innocent thoughts had taken. He had to head her off, quash any thoughts she had of jumping into that particular sea feet first. It simply couldn’t happen like that. At least, not with him.
Unfortunately, at no point had she become wary of him, much to his disgust. She’d somehow gone from regarding him as an uncle to regarding him as an equal. Which was equally erroneous. His jaw ached, along with most of his body. As for his brain, that simply hurt. “It’s not going to happen like that.” The effort of explaining things he didn’t want to risk thinking about was wearing him down.
“Oh?”
She had those Ohs down to a fine art—they always prodded him to explain.
“Desire leads to physical seduction but, in your case—in our case—that is not going to translate to any quick, rushed, illicit tumble in a courtyard or anywhere else.”
He waited for her Oh; instead, she asked, “Why?”
Because he was going to train her to be his very own fallen angel. He shook aside the thought. “Because . . .” He struggled, then blinked; if he hadn’t been driving, he would have flung up his hands in defeat. Setting his jaw, he reached for the whip. “Because you’re an innocent, and you deserve better than that. And I know better than that.” Oh, yes—this impinged on his ego as well. “I’ll seduce you as you deserve to be seduced—slowly. Innocence isn’t something you should discard like an old shoe. It has a physical value—a passionate value—all its own.”
His frown deepening, he kept his gaze fixed on his leader’s ears. “Innocence shouldn’t be tarnished, it shouldn’t be crushed. It should be made to bloom. I know.” Those last two words were as much realization as assurance. “Getting innocence to bloom takes time, takes care and attention and expertise.” His voice deepened. “It takes passion and desire, commitment and devotion to coax innocence from bud to bloom, to encourage it to unfurl into full flower without a single petal bruised.”
Was he still talking of her innocence, or did he mean something more—something of which he was as innocent as she?
To his relief, she said nothing but sat silently and considered. He considered, too—all that he wanted, the totality of his desire.
He was acutely conscious of her sitting beside him. He could feel his own heartbeat, thudding in his chest, pulsing in his fingertips, throbbing in his loins. For long moments, the only sounds about them were the steady clack of the bays’ hooves and the repetitive rattle of the wheels.
Then she stirred.
He shot her a glance, saw her frown—saw her open her mouth—
He jerked his gaze forward. “And for God’s sake, don’t you dare ask why.”
He felt her glare; from the corner of his eye, he saw her stick her nose in the air, shut her lips, primly fold her hands, and pointedly look over the landscape.
Jaw clenched, he whipped up his horses.
By the time they reached the gates of Hillgate End, he’d regained sufficient use of his brain to remember what he’d intended to tell Flick during the drive.
Setting the bays pacing up the shady avenue, he slanted a glance at her and wondered how much to reveal. Despite his distraction with her, he hadn’t forgotten about the syndicate; he knew she hadn’t, either.
The truth was, he was growing uneasy. They’d been following Bletchley for weeks and had learned nothing about the syndicate other than that it appeared exceedingly well organized. In the circumstances, he didn’t feel happy about fixing all their hopes on Bletchley.
So he’d racked his brain for alternatives. He’d considered requesting help from the rest of the Bar Cynster but had yet to do so. Vane and Patience were in Kent; Gabriel and Lucifer were in London, but needed to keep their eyes on the twins. Richard was, at last report, rather busy with his witch in Scotland. And Devil would be busy with spring planting. Be that as it may, Devil was reasonably close at Somersham. If things got difficult, he’d call on Devil, but, given that all matters to do with racing fell within his particular area of expertise, there seemed little point in summoning aid just yet. He needed to sight the enemy first, before he called in the cavalry.
To which end . . .
He drew the curricle up before the steps with a flourish and stepped down. Taking Flick’s hand, he helped her alight, then fell in beside her as she headed for the steps.
“I’m going to London tomorrow—there’s some business I need to see to.” He stopped at the base of the steps.
Already two steps up, she halted and swung to face him, a whole host of questions in her eyes.
“I’ll be back the day after tomorrow, probably late.”
“But . . . what about Bletchley?”
“Don’t worry about him.” He trapped her blue gaze. “Gillies, Hills and Cross will keep an eye on him.”
Flick blinked at him. “But what if something happens?”
“I doubt it will, but Gillies will know what to do.”
Flick had far less confidence in Gillies than she had in his master. However . . . she nodded. “Very well.” She held out her hand. “I’ll wish you a safe journey, then.”
Taking her hand, he lifted a brow. “And a speedy return?”
She raised her brows haughtily. “I dare say I’ll see you when you get back.”
He trapped her gaze. His fingers shifted about her hand—raising it, he turned it and pressed his lips fleetingly to her wrist.
Her pulse leapt; she caught her breath.
He smiled devilishly. “Count on it.”
Releasing her hand, he swept her an elegant bow and strode back to his waiting horses.
Flick watched as he leapt up to the seat, then wheeled the bays with matchless authority and set them pacing down the drive. She watched until he disappeared from sight, swallowed up by the shadows beneath the trees.
A frown slowly forming in her eyes, she turned and climbed the steps. The door was unlatched; she went in, closing it behind her. Crossing the hall, she greeted Jacobs with an absentminded smile, then continued on through the house, out on to the terrace and so onto the lawn. The lawn she had so often in recent times strolled with Demon.
If anyone had told her even three weeks before that the thought of not seeing a gentleman for two whole days would dim her mood—would sap her anticipation for those same days—she would have laughed.
She wasn’t laughing now.
Not that she was about to succumb to listless lassitude, she had far too much to do. Like deciding how she felt about desire.
She considered the point as she passed beneath the trees and on into the wisteria-shaded walk. Hands clasped behind her, she fell to slowly pacing up and down the gravel.
He wanted to marry her—he intended to marry her. He expected her to say yes—he clearly believed she would.
After this afternoon, and their frank conversation, she at least knew precisely where he stood. He wanted to marry her for all the socially acceptable reasons, and because he desired her.
Which left her facing one very large, formidable question. Would she accept him?
It wasn’t a question she’d expected to face. Never in her wildest dreams had s
he imagined that he, her idol—her ideal gentleman—would want to marry her. Would look at her, a pigtailed brat reborn, and feel desire. The only reason she could state that point, and view the prospect with quite amazing equanimity, was that, deep down, she was still struggling to believe it.
It still seemed like a dream.
But . . .
She knew he was in earnest.
Reaching the end of the walk, she squinted at the clock above the stable arch. There was still an hour before luncheon; all about her was silent, no one else was in sight. Turning, she fell to pacing again, trying to organize her thoughts into a sensible sequence.
The first point she had to consider was obvious. Did she love Demon?
Somewhat to her surprise, the answer was easy.
“I’ve been secretly in love with him for years,” she muttered. The admission left her with a very odd feeling in her stomach.
She was so disconcerted, so startled to find her heart had made up its mind long ago and not told her, that she reached the end of the walk before she could set the point aside, accept that it was decided, and move on.
“Next, does he love me?”
No answer came. She mentally replayed their conversations, but there was nothing he’d said that shed light on that point.
She grimaced. “What if he doesn’t love me?”
The answer to that was absolute. If he didn’t love her, she couldn’t marry him. Her certainty was unshakeable, deeply embedded within her.
To her mind, love and marriage went hand in hand. She knew that wasn’t society’s view, but it was hers, formed by her own observations. Her parents had loved deeply—it had shown in their faces, in their demeanor, whenever they’d been in the same room. She’d been seven when she’d last seen them, waving good-bye from the rail of their boat as it pulled away from the dock. While their features had blurred with the years, that glow that had always been theirs had not—it still shone strongly in her memory.
They’d left her a fortune, and they’d left her a memory—she was grateful for the fortune, but she valued the memory more. The knowledge of what love and marriage could be was a precious, timeless legacy.
One she would not turn her back on.
She wanted that glow for herself—she always had. She’d grown up with that expectation. From all she’d gleaned about the General and his wife, Margery, theirs, too, had been a union blessed.
Which brought her back to Demon.
Frowning, she paced back and forth, considering his reasons for marrying her. His socially acceptable reasons were all very well, yet superficial and not essential. They could be dismissed, taken for granted.
Which left her with desire.
One minute was enough to summarize all she knew on that subject. Questions like Did desire encompass love? Did love encompass desire? were beyond her ability to answer. Until this past week, she hadn’t even known what desire was, and while she now knew what it felt like, her experience of it remained minimal. A fact their recent discussion had emphasized.
There was clearly much she had to learn about desire—love or no love.
For the next half hour, she paced and pondered; by the time the lunch gong sounded, she’d reached one clear conclusion, which raised one simple question. She had, she thought, as she strolled back to the house, made good progress.
Her conclusion was absolute and inviolable—utterly unchangeable. She would marry with love, or not at all. She wanted to love, and be loved in return—it was that or nothing.
As for her question, it was straightforward and pertinent: Was it possible to start with desire—strong desire—and progress to love?
Lifting her face to the sun, she closed her eyes. She felt reassured, certain of what she wanted, how to face what was to come.
If Demon wanted to marry her, wanted her to say yes when he asked for her hand, then he would need to teach her more about desire, and convince her that her question could be answered in the affirmative.
Opening her eyes, she lifted her skirts; climbing the steps, she went in to lunch.
Chapter 11
Demon set out for London just after dawn. He kept the bays up to their bits, eager to reach the capital and the offices of Heathcote Montague, man of business to the Cynsters. After considerable thought, he’d hit upon a possible alternative means of identifying members of the syndicate.
Unbeknown to Flick, he’d visited Dillon and extracted a list of the races he’d fixed. He’d then called in favors from all around Newmarket to get the figures, including various bookmakers’ odds, necessary to gauge just how much money had been realized through the fixes. His rough estimations had sent his brows rising high—the amount had been startling enough to suggest Montague might be able to trace it. Even a portion of the total should have left some discernible mark somewhere in the financial capital.
It was worth a try.
The road sped beneath his wheels. Demon’s thoughts drifted back—to Flick. Impatience gripped him, a restless urge to hurry.
So he could return to Newmarket.
Lips setting, he shook aside the nagging worry—what possible trouble could she get into in two days? He would remain in London for only one night. Bletchley seemed settled; Gillies had his orders. All would be well.
His gaze fixed on the road ahead, he urged the bays on.
* * *
Three hours later, neatly garbed in her velvet riding habit and perched upon Jessamy, Flick went riding on Newmarket Heath.
Naturally, she expected to see Bletchley, idly watching the last of the morning gallops as he had for the past week.
To her consternation, she didn’t see him. She couldn’t find Gillies, Cross or Hills, either. Sitting straight in her saddle, she scanned the gallops—the rising stretches of turf where the last strings were pounding—then turned to survey the surrounding flats. To no avail.
“Isn’t that just typical!” Gathering Jessamy’s reins, she wheeled the mare and rode straight into town.
Without any idea what to do, Flick walked Jessamy down the paved street. Most of those about belonged to the racing fraternity—stable lads, grooms, trainers, jockeys. Some knew her and bobbed respectfully; all looked Jessamy over with keen professional eyes. Flick barely noticed.
Where had Bletchley been staying? She couldn’t remember the inn’s name. Demon had said it wasn’t in Newmarket, but somewhere to the north.
But what had happened to Gillies and the others? They’d watched Bletchley for this long without mishap—could he finally have identified them and . . .
And what? She had no idea.
Doggedly, she headed north up the High Street, an ill-formed plan of inquiring at the inns to the north of town in mind. Halfway up the street, she came to the Rutland Arms, the main coaching inn. The mailcoach squatted like a huge black beetle before the inn’s main door; she glanced at the passengers waiting to board.
A flash of scarlet caught her eye; abruptly she reined in. A curse from behind had her turning in her saddle. “Oh—I’m so sorry.” Blushing, she drew Jessamy aside to let the racing string she’d impeded pass. The long file of horses with lads atop gave her useful cover; screened by them, she peered across the street.
“Yes!” Eyes lighting, Flick saw Bletchley, his red neckerchief a beacon, clamber up to the coach’s roof. Then she frowned. “Why is he going to Bury St. Edmunds?”
Raising his yard, the guard blew a warning; the next instant, the coach lurched. Overloaded with men, apparently in rowdy mood, clinging to the roof, it ponderously rolled off up the High Street.
Flick stared after it. While she had no idea why Bletchley was heading to Bury St. Edmunds, it seemed unlikely he’d stop anywhere en route. There simply wasn’t anywhere en route.
She had to find Gillies, and find out what had happened to him and Hills and Cross. She quickly turned Jessamy south, toward the stud farm.
And spied Gillies mounted on a hack not ten yards away. With a muttered exclamation, she tro
tted Jessamy over.
“Did you see?” She drew rein beside him. “Bletchley’s gone off to Bury St. Edmunds.”
“Aye.” Gillies’s gaze drifted up the street in the wake of the departing coach.
“Well”—Flick settled Jessamy as she danced—“we’d better follow him.”
Gillies’s gaze snapped to her face. “Follow ’im?”
“Of course.”
Flick frowned. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be doing?”
Gillies looked uncertain.
“Where are Hills and Cross?” Flick asked impatiently.
“Hills is at the farm—he was last on watch. Cross is over there.” Gillies indicated with his chin. “He was watching Bletchley this morning.”
Flick located the lugubrious Cross lounging in a doorway across the street. “Yes, well, now Bletchley has made a move, we’ll need to organize to follow him.”
“We will?”
Flick stared at Gillies. “What is the matter with you? Didn’t Demon leave you with orders to follow Bletchley?”
Gillies stared back, then, mute, shook his head.
Flick stared even more; she couldn’t imagine what was going on. But Gillies and Cross were out and about. “What are your orders?”
Gillies’s face fell; his eyes took on the look of a mournful spaniel’s. “To follow you, miss, and keep you out of trouble.”
Only the fact that they were in a crowded public place prevented Flick from giving Gillies her opinion of his master’s arrogance. His overweening conceit. His ridiculous male ego.
By the time she, with Gillies and Cross in tow, had retreated to the now empty Heath, she’d calmed down—to simmering. “I don’t care what orders he gave before he left, he couldn’t have foreseen Bletchley leaving. But he has, so we must improvise.”
Gillies remained blank-faced. “The master was most particular, miss. He said we was to hold the fort here, and not let—not make any rash moves. Anyway, there’s no need to follow Bletchley to Bury—chances are, when he wants to hie back to London, he’ll come back through here on the coach.”
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